


THE SEEKER CHRONICLES

by Mikkeneko



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cassandra is Inquisitor, Darkest Timeline, F/F, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kismesis, More pre-slash than anything, The Last Temptation of Cassandra Pentaghast, there's attraction there but they're both too stubborn to act on it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 01:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15808869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkeneko/pseuds/Mikkeneko
Summary: As Orlais burns in civil conflict, as Corypheus stands poised to roll over the land, the world hangs upon a precipice. Morrigan visits the Inquisitor, Cassandra Pentaghast, at Skyhold in one last attempt to exhort her to do the right thing.





	THE SEEKER CHRONICLES

**Author's Note:**

> A what-if fic where the player Inquisitor didn't turn up, and Cassandra became Inquisitor instead. Follows the pattern of "The Darkspawn Chronicles," the Origins DLC that shows how the Battle of Denerim might have played out if there had been no Warden and Alistair had been forced to go at it alone. 
> 
> This fic assumes [a rather dark timeline of events](http://mikkeneko.tumblr.com/post/177428355704/mikkeneko-mikkeneko-i-have-no-idea-how-i-got) that could follow Cassandra becoming Inquisitor. As much as possible I tried to draw inferences for how she would act as Inquisitor directly from her own dialogue -- how she cautions you against recruiting Cole or Sera or Dorian, for example, or her attack on Varric after Hawke turns up. The rest of the disasters that attend her command of the Inquisition mostly follow the assumption that the things the player does actually have meaning, and that an Inquisitor who refused to do those things would be worse off and not able to meet all the challenges that Corypheus throws on them. As with Alistair, Cassandra herself says that she would not make a good Inquisitor; as with Alistair, we should probably believe her.

 

The candles burned bright and steady; the wax was clean, sending only the faintest trickles of smoke up to the ceiling, and one blended with another to create a bright, clear pool of golden light. It caught on the edges and crevices of the shrine, lighting Andraste's face from below in a way that sunlight never could; the faintest flickering made the shadows dance, made her almost look alive. 

Beyond the edge of the candlelight shadows gathered thickly in the corners of the room. The fire in the hearth was cold, and the candles did nothing to warm the heavy stone against the biting chill of the sky-capped mountains. Cassandra ignored the cold, ignored the shadows, ignored everything as she focused on the dance of candle flames on Andraste and the prayers falling from her lips. 

Tonight it was Apotheosis, as it had been so many other nights since this uncanny war had begun, since the sky had torn open with a green light that threatened to consume the world, a light that gnawed in her own hand. As a figure from legends and horror stories rose to stalk the world again, Cassandra whispered the same words that Andraste had, when her armies had faced just such horrors across the field of battle. 

> "You who stand before the gates,  
>  You who have followed me into the heart of evil,  
>  The fear of death is in your eyes; its hand is upon your throat.  
>  Raise your voices to the heavens! Remember:  
>  Not alone do we stand on the field of battle.  
>  At last, the Light shall shine upon all of creation,  
>  If we are only strong enough -- str -- strong enough -- to carry it."

The words caught in her throat, her breath stopping for a moment; she shut her eyes, a slight tremor in her jaw before she clenched it. She forced past the moment of doubt, and kept going.  


> "And the armies of Andraste raised their voices,  
>  Singing a hymn of praise to the Maker.
> 
> The Maker is with us! His Light shall be our banner,  
>  And we shall bear it through the gates of that city and deliver it --"

The Chant was interrupted by another voice, a slow female drawl that drifted across her litany like a dark smoke. "Do not tell me," the voice said, "that you are reciting that same old song _again?_   By now, I thought you would have realized that it does you no good whatsoever." 

Cassandra's jaw clenched again, this time from irritation and outrage, but she refused to give the speaker the satisfaction of snapping back at her. A line bent her brow as she shifted forward, focusing even more closely on the candlelight and the altar. "And we shall deliver it --" she repeated, just a little louder. "To our brothers and sisters awaiting their freedom within those walls --" 

The darkness thickened, swirled, and a figure resolved itself from it as though an early morning fog had cleared. Dark hair, dark clothes against darkness, from the corner of her eyes Cassandra saw only a blur of pale whiteness at the woman's face, neck, hands, and feet. She paced slowly along the wall, moving like a prowling animal, and her feet were bare against the stone floor of the chamber. 

"You know, o most _holy_ Inquisitor _,_ " Morrigan said, coming to a stop at the divan along the far wall, and perching herself on the arm right at the edge of Cassandra's peripheral vision. "All this maundering about Andraste and the Maker and the Chant of Light reminds me of a story I once heard. Long ago, when I was but a child in the Korcari Wilds, I heard the Chasind hunters tell the story of a Chantry sister whose village was threatened by a flood." 

Cassandra kept her eyes straight ahead, refusing to look aside or acknowledge Morrigan in any other way; but the dark-haired woman continued blithely, not waiting for Cassandra's invitation to speak. 

"The little village Chantry was close to the river, so as the floodwaters rose, the stone and mud building was threatened. The rest of the villagers had already left, but one man drove a cart on the road beside the Chantry, stuck his head through the doorway and said her, 'Sister, the water is rising. Hop on my ox-cart, and I can drive you away to safety.' " 

Morrigan clasped her hands before her in an exaggerated mockery of prayer. " 'No, no,' the Chantry sister replied, deep in her prayers. 'That is quite all right, I do not need your ox-cart. I am praying to the Maker, and I have faith that he will save me.' 

" 'Suit yourself,' the ox-cart man said, and he drove on. 

"The rain kept falling, and the water kept rising, until the path leading to the Chantry was cut off by water. A raft appeared, the rafter poling down the village roads as easily as on the river, and he called out to the Chantry, 'Lady, the water is rising. Get on board my raft, and I can float you away to safety.' 

" 'No, no,' the Chantry sister replied, still busy with her prayers. 'I have faith in the Maker, and I know that he will deliver me. I do not need your raft.' 

" 'Suit yourself,' the raft-man said, and he poled on. 

"Well, the rain continued to fall, and the water continued to rise. The Chantry became flooded, and the Sister retreated to the roof of the building, where she redoubled her prayers. 

"As she knelt on the roof, praying, a great black raven flapped overhead. To her astonishment, the bird spoke, as it was one of the wild Chasind shamans of the mountains. "Woman, the water is rising," it croaked. 'Touch my feathers, and I will transform you into a mouse, that I might bear you away to safety.' 

" 'That is the blackest magic, and a violation of the Maker's will!' exclaimed the Sister. 'I have faith in the Maker, and he will preserve me! I do not need your magic, and I would never make use of such heresy!' 

" 'Suit yourself,' the raven cawed, and it flew on. 

"The rain continued to fall, and the water continued to rise. And when it rose past the roof of the Chantry, the Sister was drowned. 

"After she died, the Sister came to the throne of the Maker, and stood before him. 'My lord, why did you abandon me?' she exclaimed. 'I was faithful and devout, I sang the proper chants and said the right prayers. Why did you not save me from that flood?' " 

"And the Maker replied, 'I sent you a raft, an ox-cart, and a raven. What more did you want from me?!' " 

"Is there a _point_   to this?" Cassandra growled. 

"Many points, depending on who you ask," Morrigan purred. "Some say it is a lesson about using all of the tools at your disposal. Others would say it is a story about how the Maker's will works through all things in the world, even those one would not expect. Like ox-cart men. Or mages. 

"Others say that the point is that the Maker helps those that help themselves; that action, not prayer, is what the Maker asks of his subjects. And yet others would say it is a story about a stupid, stubborn ass getting the fate her dogged attention to dogma deserved. Honestly, any one of those interpretations would be pertinent to you." 

Cassandra let out a long sigh, shifting back on her heels and dropping her hands. There was no point in pretending to ignore Morrigan; the woman would not leave until she'd gotten the reaction she wanted. "What are you doing here, witch?" 

Morrigan scoffed. "I could hardly stay in Halamshiral, could I?" she said tartly. "Not after the intervention of your precious inquisition left it burned to a pile of ashes. Well done there." 

Cassandra bristled, stung by the reminder of her disastrous sojourn in Halamshiral. For all her efforts at preparation, at _diplomacy,_   she'd lasted at the great court barely a day before offending enough people badly enough to get her ejected from the court with a sound finality. 

She knew was not suited to life at court. She'd not been suited back in Nevarra, and the Winter Palace was a hundred, a thousand times more vicious, a pit lined in snakes behind smiling masks. She'd thought she knew enough to make her own way, relying on the airs and graces she'd learned back at home -- and it hadn't been enough. 

Josephine had tried so hard to prepare her, to coach her going in. Josephine had tried so hard to smooth her way, to conciliate between her and the Orlesian nobles, to argue and persuade and plead for her to stay. And when, despite all of Josephine's exhortations, she'd been shown rudely to the gates, Josephine had stayed behind to try to continue her work on the Inquisition's behalf. 

When Halamshiral burned, Josephine had been there still. None of Leliana's agents had been able to find her in the chaos, before the roaring flames drove the last of them out. Only a handful of elven servants had escaped the conflagration that had enveloped Orlais' Empress, its Grand Duke and Duchess and a hundred other nobles beside, and Josephine Montilyet had not been of those lucky few. 

From there the flames had swept outward to engulf the empire, splintering it into a hundred factions competing over a hundred cities and tracts of land. The Inquisition had been helpless to stop the chaos.

No, Morrigan could not have stayed in Orlais. Still -- "You could have gone elsewhere. Back to the swamp that spawned you, perhaps," she retorted. "You are not welcome _here_." 

"Such a lack of hospitality!" Morrigan tsked. She leaned back against Cassandra's armoire and crossed her arms, a posture of studied casualness. "And after you left me homeless. I came here, Inquisitor, because you were direly in need of good advice." 

"And you thought to appoint yourself advisor?" Cassandra made a rude noise in her throat. "I didn't ask you here." 

"You'll find that you do not order my comings and goings." A thin, sharp smile spread across her wide mouth. "Herald, Seeker, Inquisitor, Princess… none of these titles hold command over one such as I." 

The swamp witch had a way of making all of Cassandra's titles, all of her stations and accomplishments, sound like insults. "What do you _want?"_   Cassandra repeated. 

Morrigan spread her arms. "What do any of us want? For the world to continue existing, preferably in such a state as is fit to inhabit. For Corypheus' destruction, and the end of his madness. You remain, as yet, our best chance of making this happen. Unfortunately." 

Cassandra rubbed her forehead. "Say what you mean then, without all the circuitous insults," she said. 

"Very well." The insolence dropped away from Morrigan as she straightened, stepping towards Morrigan with an expression of frightening intensity. "You must direct your 'inquisition' to the Arbor Wilds. You know perfectly well that Corypheus even now hastens to the Temple there, abandoning all other fronts, in pursuit of one great aim. He _must_   be stopped! Whatever this power he seeks, it must be gained by the Inquisition, not by him!" 

Her words were full of passion, conviction, and it took an effort for Cassandra to hold herself unmoved; but she had gotten a lot of practice. "Hmph. Same entreaty as before, then," she said. "My answer has not changed, witch: I will not dance to your tune. I do not trust you, and I will not put my people's head in a noose for your dark ambitions." 

Morrigan huffed in frustration. "Oh come now, I could hardly cause you to fail any more than you already have." 

"We have not failed!" Cassandra snapped, nettled out of her cold façade. "We stopped the demon army that would have swept over this world!" 

Gold eyes glinted in the darkness, cruel and knowing. "Aye, and at what cost? Or should I say… at _whose_   cost?" 

It was a low blow, a knife slid in the weak joint of her armor; it was meant to hurt and she knew it, but she still could not keep herself from wincing. Could not keep from flinching at the remembered agonies of Adamant Keep, the horrific bloody siege that had ended in nightmare. 

Together with Commander Cullen, Lieutenant Barris and Warden Stroud, she had fought to the very top of the Keep's spire to do battle with the twisted, tainted abomination of a dragon. Together, the three of them had fought their way through the demons of the very Fade itself, broken their swords upon the bulwark forces of Fear itself. 

One by one her companions had turned at bay, urging her to go on, that she of all of them must survive to escape the nightmare and return to the fight. One by one, each of them had fallen, and she stumbled out of the rift into the courtyard at Adamant alone. 

Cheers had surrounded her as she stood there, bleeding through the cracks of her armor, aching with burns and bruises but more than anything else with the devastating knowledge of her own cowardice, her own failure. But they'd cheered her anyway, because in the wake of the ruinous assault they'd needed something, _anything_   to call a victory. 

Too few men and women in Inquisition armor had limped home again from Adamant, too many of their forces lost to blank-eyed mages or the maddened claws of demons. Cassandra had ridden in the front, in her tabard, with the empty glaring spaces on either side of her where the others should have rode. 

And then to come back to Skyhold, aching for rest, hoping for welcome and comfort, only to find… open gates, empty cells, and Leliana waiting at the gates with accusation on her lips and triumph in her eyes. The others -- Hawke, Varric, whom she'd left in the cell when she rode off to Adamant -- gone. _I didn't mean it, not really, I wouldn't have hurt him… I wouldn't have…_   But there was no one left to listen. 

Morrigan spoke again, breaking into Cassandra's dark thoughts, bloody memories. "You stopped one gambit… aye, one among many," she said, grudging allowance blending into contempt. "You stand in a blizzard and clutch at a single snowflake while the drifts build around you!" 

Cassandra tried to hold onto her temper. "The challenges are great, I never denied that," she said. "But the Inquistion has all it needs: doughty templars, brave soldiers, and faith." 

"You need more than that," Morrigan insisted.  "You need knowledge. You need power. You need magic. _Real_   magic, not those pretty little birds in gilted cages, singing for their supper -- " 

"I do _not_ lack for expertise in magic," Cassandra protested. "I have the greatest enchanter in all of Orlais, the First Enchanter of Montsimmard!" 

"That salon-dwelling, parlor pink? Raised in the circle and fed a steady diet of watered-down tripe?" Morrigan derided. "She knows nothing of true power. She knows nothing of the Fade. She knows nothing of Tevinter. Those that might, you have turned away, or driven away." 

Morrigan spoke, no doubt, of that mouthy Tevinter magister who had turned up at the gates of Skyhold, trying to talk his way past their defenses. "I had no intention of letting Tevinter backstabbers or Qunari spies into our ranks," Cassandra growled. 

"You forget, your pious Andrasteans and little southern kingdoms are not all there is in the world," Morrigan said. "Corypheus threatens to destroy all, from the southernmost barrens to the great northern sea. Every living thing upon this world is threatened, and has the right to rise to its defense. You have not the right to deny them." 

She had a point, but Cassandra only said:  "They may seek to oppose Corypheus however they choose. I certainly am not stopping them." 

"But you are the only one with the anchor! The key!" Morrigan exclaimed, frustrated. "You are the counterweight that could tip the balance… _if_   you could get your head out of your ass long enough to act!" 

"Act as _you_   tell me to?" Cassandra challenged. 

"If no one else will! I _will_   see to the salvation of this world!" 

Her words rang in the stone room. Such conviction, Cassandra thought, not for the first time. Such _passion._   When had Morrigan's conviction come to sound of more surety than any other voice in Cassandra's hearing? When had the fervent prayer of her followers, her soldiers, started to ring hollow? 

She found her lips had gone dry, and had to wet them before she could speak. "I do not trust you, witch," she said. "Your lips speak of the salvation of the world, but your eyes are greedy. You hunger for power no mortal should have. I do not intend to be the one to give it to you." 

"Then you will doom this world for the sake of your pride!" Morrigan raged, all hint of her cool and sarcastic demeanor fled. Her gold eyes snapped like leaping flames, her dark hair seemed to blaze out like a black corona around her pale face, cheeks flushed high with emotion. "You will kill us all for your stubborn, bigoted _faith,_   you will betray the sacrifices of all those who followed you blindly --" 

"Do not speak to me of them!" Cassandra snarled, on her feet and facing Morrigan. "You have no right!" 

Morrigan laughed in her face, a harsh caw of a sound. "And I have told you, Chantry girl, that you do not tell me what I can and cannot do!" she exclaimed. "Why should I not speak the truth? Of the bodies you left in your wake? Of Thom Rainier, who followed you trustingly, left to hang in the gallows in the square at Val Royeaux? Of your Templar lackeys, used and thrown away behind you to ensure your escape from the Fade? Of the little Ambassador, left a charred shell on the floor at Halam --" 

Enraged past all restraint, Cassandra lunged forward, one hand balled in a fist and the other held out, reaching for a hold on the witch's body. "Shut _up!"_   

Her open hand tangled in a mess of cords and feathers -- her fist connected, but indirect and off-center. There was a _crunch_   and blood flowed from Morrigan's nose; the woman reeled back, looking stunned for but a moment before her eyes widened, her lips drew back in a snarl, and she launched herself back at Cassandra in return. 

Overbalanced, the two of them went over and hit the bedroom floor with a jarring crash. Cassandra's clutching handful of feathers and skin went indistinct, strangely soft, and a moment later Morrigan was on top of her, bearing down with greater weight than such a slip of a woman ought to posses. "Did you think me weak?!" Morrigan snarled. "Did you think that because I am a mage, and you are a warrior, that you could overcome me with brute strength? I know strength that you can barely imagine, power that you can never comprehend!" 

"I said shut up!" Cassandra landed another punch, missed the next one, tried a kick that didn't connect. Morrigan seemed to be _there_   and yet _not-there_   at once, a shifting mass of cool-skinned limbs that were never quite in the right place. Sharp teeth bit into Cassandra's shoulder, needle-punched holes, and she cried out. Morrigan reared back for a moment, licking her lips in satisfaction; the bottom half of her face was a mask of blood, but it was hard to say whether it issued from her shattered nose, or otherwise. 

With a prayer on her lips Cassandra called on her god, and clenched her fist around a handful of light; it crashed on Morrigan like a bolt from the heavens, silencing her and draining her of mana in one. 

The dark cloud that contained Morrigan seemed to flinch, draw in on itself. Then it exploded back outwards, and Cassandra threw herself to the side as huge claws raked where she had fallen. "Don't you try your Templar tricks on me, Herald!" Morrigan's voice hissed from the darkness. "I am not one of your Circle mages, beaten and cowed. I am the Witch of the Wilds, the Forest Mother, the daughter of dragons! Do not test me!" 

How Morrigan found the breath to rant like that Cassandra had no idea; she was already winded from their grappling, and she had more practice in physical combat than Morrigan ever had. Getting her feet under her she sprang back, catching Morrigan by surprise; the momentum of her charge carried them both across the room until it was ended abruptly by a tooth-jarring impact against the stone wall. 

"And I," Cassandra puffed, panting for breath, "am a Pentaghast. The lineage… of the dragon-slayers. Do not test _me."_  

Morrigan glared back at her, their eyes locked in this strange, sudden quiet between them. Not peace, exactly, but a moment of balance, as they matched their strength against each other and found it exactly locked, neither able to make the other yield by an inch. Morrigan's chest heaved against her, her body burning as cold as Cassandra's was hot, and the smell of it -- blood, ozone, wet earth, and something more -- made her head spin. 

Cassandra grabbed for Morrigan's wrist. Another shifting, melting moment and Morrigan was away, a rustle of cloth and feathers placing her further along the wall of Cassandra's chambers. The two women eyed each other, tense and wary; Morrigan prowled at the border of the circle of candle-light, but made no move to cross that boundary. Cassandra stayed planted within the circle of light, and would not step outside it. 

"Why do you still cling to your stubborn pride?" Morrigan said at last -- almost the same words as before, but plaintive now, almost sorrowful. "I am not the wicked fairy-tale story you seem to take me for. Can you not believe that I wish to _help_   the world, and helping _you_   is the only way to do it? Would your own Maker not wish you to do whatever it takes, to save his creations?" 

Cassandra swallowed. Her tongue seemed thick, her throat swollen, and it was hard to force out the words. "The Maker and His Bride chose me for a reason," she said. "They chose me, knowing me for what I am. I must be true to that, true to Their will." 

" _Tcha!"_   Morrigan spun away; a flowing of darkness, and her golden eyes appeared again by the window of Cassandra's chamber. Magic flared, and the flow of blood stopped, although it still made a mask over her mouth and chin. "You mistake blindness for faith, and stubbornness for strength. In your recalcitrance you have brought this world to the very brink of destruction. But there is still time, Cassandra, to take another path. There is still time, if you choose wisely." 

The window opened; a gust of cold air blew inwards, making all the candles bend in their frames. The witch was gone, and only her words remained, echoing in the darkened chamber. 

 _Choose wisely…_  

Cassandra stood there, trying not to tremble, for a long time after the cold wind died. Eventually, at last, she walked over and shut the window. Nothing happened to her when she stepped outside the circle of light. 

 _Choose wisely…_  

She returned, taking her place before the shrine, folded hands clutching each other beseechingly, as though the prayer she spoke between them was a line to which she could cling. 

> The one who repents, who has faith,  
>  Unshaken by the darkness of the world,  
>  She shall know true peace.
> 
> For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.  
>  And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker  
>  Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword. 

_Choose wisely…_

Cassandra closed her eyes, the image of the candles still burning against her lids.

> O Maker, hear my cry:   
>  Guide me through the blackest nights.   
>  Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked…

It was a long way off until dawn.

 

* * *

 

 

~the end.


End file.
